


Tuned to a Dead Channel

by von_gikkingen



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe, WandaVision (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ghosts, Haunting, Magic, Magic-Users, Memory Related, Past Character Death, Talking To Dead People, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-21 14:46:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30023376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/von_gikkingen/pseuds/von_gikkingen
Summary: ... I can see you...But no, he COULDN'T. How could he? Who was he to have such power? Just a man with an almost painfully thick accent and what was either complete misunderstanding of what he was facing or an incredible pokerface...He didn’t see her. It wasn’t possible.And he was looking RIGHT AT HER all the same...
Relationships: Ulysses Klaue/Agatha Harkness
Kudos: 3





	1. The Ghost

It wasn’t so bad.

Well, it _was_. But at least she was still breathing. That seemed like a minor miracle, considering how badly she underestimated the last person whose powers she tried to take.

As she listened to herself say some innocuous, bordering on idiotic, lines that sounded so very _Agnes_ she took a moment to try to convince herself this could still be a good thing. And, couldn’t it, really...? Didn’t that grieving girl think of her as someone who has been dealt with? Someone no longer a threat...

Yes, Agatha could definitely use _that_ to her advantage. She knew how to bide her time, after all. Oh yes, she could wait.

Would have a lot easier time doing so if only she didn’t have to be dealing with her alter ego and those insipid little lines she kept spewing at the slightest excuse. But she could endure. Somehow. Indulge in the occasional violent fantasy on the subject of her next meeting with Wanda Maximoff, perhaps.

And they _were_ going to meet again. There was no doubting that, at least.

Someday the witch that did this to her will be back and on that day Agnes will say her last painfully cheerful comment. And Agatha will be _herself_ again.

Someday.

She just had to make sure she was still sane when that day came.

...

Failed step one...

...

No. No she didn’t. She didn’t go _mad_. Not inside a single week. After the life she led, the things she survived over the centuries, that was simply _not_ an option.

She wasn’t mad. Not her. There was another explanation here...

An explanation that didn’t involved Wanda, that much she was certain of. If the witch knew Agatha could exploit the connection that now existed between them to access still more of her memories there would be consequences. Something far more drastic than what happened the other night, making Agnes snap from sound sleep at two in the morning in terrified confusion, having no idea what caused it. What made her heart beat so painfully fast and made the person she was on the inside, behind the mask of a sitcom cliché, start to wonder if one of the Scarlet Witch’s memories actually drove her mad.

This wasn’t Wanda’s doing, she was certain of it. Something else was going on. Something about that moment preserved inside that wretched girl’s memory...

And what a memory it was. That instant when the most powerful being she ever encountered has been confronted by a man who, in a singularly unimpressed manner, let both her and her brother know there were harmless sea creatures that he found scarier than either of them. It would have been almost funny – and she did chuckle a little, seeing the looks on the Maximoff’s faces as they stared back with no comeback to make. And then...

She didn’t lose her mind. She _didn’t_.

Did she...?

...

_I can see you._

...

Which of course wasn’t possible. That wasn't how any part of this worked. She was in effect watching a rerun. Running through the same motions, time and again. They were things caught in amber, unchangeable forever. It was unthinkable for something within those captured moments to be aware of her.

To _speak_ to her.

Look her right in the eye and say those four words that startled her so badly she lost the hold on the memory. Lost all focus as her fear and the onslaught of doubt about her sanity made her wake up. Made her lose herself to Agnes now, during the only time she was allowed to be truly herself.

With the grinning simpleton in charge she was something not unlike a memory herself. It was only in sleep when she regained some of her capacity for magic. Only in sleep she could weave a simple spell or two. Try to get to know her enemy by delving into her past, one memory at a time. And now she lost that too as she found herself Agnes again right at witching hour, when world was dark and peaceful and everything seemed possible.

And behind the mask that was Agnes she was wondering if she could trust her own mind anymore...

...

 _I can see you_.

...

But no, he couldn’t. How could he? Who was he to have such power? Just a man with an almost painfully thick accent and what was either complete misunderstanding of what he was facing or an incredible pokerface...

He didn’t see her. It wasn’t possible.

And he was looking _right at her_ all the same...

...

She calms herself down. Well, Agnes does. Agnes who doesn’t dwell on strange dreams, who’s too busy plastering a huge smile on her face any excuse she gets and annoying everyone in her vicinity with her sitcom personality.

Such a simple little mind. One that would already be lost if she had to deal with this disquieting mystery Agatha now had to solve. Had to pray wasn’t simply the obvious.

The first cracks showing...

Her true self so desperate to be visible to someone, anyone, that she rewrote the script of Wanda’s recollection just to feel seen.

That was certainly an explanation. Scary one, exactly because it was so probable. And Agatha needed another one. _Any_ other one.

It couldn’t have been that simple. Couldn’t have been _that sad_. Not that. Not something as ordinary as loneliness breaking her. Was she really that fragile? Was being disconnected from the world in this way really doing _this_ to her?

...

She had no answers. None. Not even a theory.

And while Agnes went through the motions of her pathetic little life the night was nearing its end. And the coming of the day brought a promise of another one following it. A night meaning things that never before seemed so threatening.

Sleep.

_Dreams._


	2. The Witch

He was caged in.

The veldt might have stretched on forever under this unnatural sky but the claustrophobic feeling wasn’t going away. This place that shouldn’t be possible, this _existence_ he now had – it wasn’t far from any kind of hellish landscape where he'd be made to pay for his sins. And yet, the sense of never being able to leave it, never to have anything but the eerily lit darkness and the company of ghosts...?

It was _not_ great for his sanity.

Not that he clang to it too hard in life, not by the end. No – his last days were nothing but a testament to how much he was willing to have fun, no matter what that did to his chances for long term survival. Well, maybe he wasn’t _that_ invested in surviving anymore.

And maybe, if he knew what death would be like, he would take it down a notch with the borderline suicidal stunts he was always pulling.

Moot point now. Someone did him the ultimate favour of getting him a one way ticket into the afterlife. This place. This _cage_ of a place there was never going to be any escaping.

This was all he had now. A place that ran on forever, yet felt like a too-small coffin.

...

And then someone opened the lid.

...

That’s what it felt like. A sense of space opening up as the seemingly endless veldt that was forever watching him with luminous, feline eyes, became in some way less... substantial.

He felt them startle, all those long-dead savages. Felt their confusion even as he took a step in the direction that led... _out_. In some twisted, improbable way that had nothing to do with how things worked in the world of the living.

He didn’t waste time wondering. He simply took a step towards what felt like an exit and...

And the veldt was gone.

And in it’s place...

...

“I can see you,” he utters as soon as he realizes what it is that feels odd about the moment. About the woman who was definitely _not_ there that day. Standing off in the corner, watching the scene unravel with the expression of someone... uninvolved. A mere observer.

Looking for something, or so it seemed. Running her eyes over everything around her, taking in the details in a manner that was both curious and just a little bored.

Well, she wasn’t bored anymore.

Her eyes went wide, her face freezing in expression of... fear, almost. Telling him everything he needed to know about how much she expected to be spoken to. What a shock it was for her to realize she wasn’t invisible to him. 

And then she’s gone, just like that. Only a few trails of thick purple smoke in the place where she stood.

“So... that happened,” he utters, chuckling to himself.

Death. It was full of surprises.

...

“Thought you might be back.”

It’s strange with time. It’s been strange since that last bullet burrowed into his brain. Time is just... a memory. A blurry one at that.

She might have been gone for hours. Days. Time enough to collect herself. Though... she didn’t do _that_ good a job of it.

She seems tense. Uncertain. Nothing like the calm, darkly amused woman from earlier. And he can feel that old familiar smirk tugging at his lips. “Did I scare you that badly?” he says, commenting on the distance she’s making sure to keep him at.

“Shut up. Let me think,” says the woman. Her eyes growing fevered as she does just that. Trying to figure out what the hell is happening here, no doubt. Not an unreasonable thing to want to know, he supposes. Not a bad way to drive herself crazy, either. Because how can any of this have an explanation...?

“This shouldn’t be happening, should it?” he says a moment later, growing bored with the silence.

Rather than answering she bites her lip, shooting a quick look to the two Hydra labrats whose motionless forms still remain by the door. “She’s not doing it. Are you?”

“Doing what...?”

The silence that follows is long and full of unspoken things. In the end she settles on an answer, he can see it on her face. And can’t help but grin at the way she desperately wants to not say the words.

“Haunting me.”

...

“You _are_ , aren’t you? Dead...?”

It’s not a question as much as a statement of a fact. Sounds like something she just now figured out. Something that seemed to make her a whole lot less tense all of a sudden. As though she knew where she was with the dead...

“Obviously,” he utters. Adding a quick guess of, “Meanwhile you’re definitely still breathing.”

“Wishing I wasn’t,” she utters under her breath, glancing at the girl for some reason. A look that is a little too intense not to hold some deeper meaning. There is anger and not a little fear clashing on her face as she looks at the skinny little Eastern European. “So you died here? She killed you?”

He’s laughing before he can do much about it.

“What, that one?” he says, fighting through gales of laughter at the very idea. “You look at _that_ and see a killer?”

“No,” says the woman, a smile breaking through her frown for just a moment. A wonderfully wicked smile that transforms her into someone startlingly desirable, just like that. “No, I look at _that_ and see a harbinger of chaos.”

“And what does that mean, exactly?”

“I... wish I knew,” she replies, growing thoughtful again. “Wish I wasn’t so certain I’ll get to find out someday... She’s bad news,” she adds, glancing at him. Clearly mentally replaying the way he spoke to the girl. Just stopping short of telling her there were kittens he found more intimidating than her.

“Well, that’s what you get for being alive. Nothing but trouble. Me, I’ll never have to worry about enemies again.”

She blinks back her surprise. “How can you...”

“What?”

“How can you be restless dead with an attitude like _that_?”

“Is that what I am?” he says, repeating the words to himself just to hear if they sounded right. And, well, _restless_ definitely was a word that fit. It’s not like he was adjusting to the whole no-longer-being-alive thing all that well. He just knew no amount of discontent could have undone this. Death was... final. Resigning himself to it was about the only option he had and so he did.

Or thought he did. But then what was he doing here, haunting... “I’m sorry, who are you exactly?”

“What?” frowns the woman.

“A name, gorgeous. You have one, presumably? Might help me figure out why the hell am I haunting you of all people.”

...

“No. Never heard of you.”

The words earn him a soft, tired laugh. “Well, we don’t exactly move in the same circles, do we? As far as I can tell the only point of connection is the little witch over there,” she says, a wave of her hand indicating the Maximoff girl.

He shrugs. Then does a double take of what he just heard.

“I’m sorry – she’s a _what_...?”

...

“Why have I no trouble believing that?” he finds himself saying on hearing her explanation. 

She doesn’t reply, this Agatha Harkness, who can apparently take the dead speaking to her from other people’s memory in her stride. Which, now that he thinks of it, definitely means... “Takes one to know one?”

“Oh, I'm a witch. I thought that was clear," she comments, her lips twitching in a grin before she grows serious again. "But I’m nothing like Wanda. _No one is_.”

A witch... Well, so the world of the living was exactly as crazy a place as he remembered it to be. Maybe he really was better off safely out of reach of the kind of trouble the living had to endure. 

He should probably thank Erik – as soon as he figured out which one of the creepy spectral panthers he was... 

“You wouldn’t know something that might help me defeat her, would you?”

“Didn’t even know she was a witch,” he reminds.

Agatha nods, conceding the point, her expression growing lost in thought. “Well then... This was lovely but I have places to be. Memories to spy on. She’s gonna let me out someday and I have to be ready for her.”

The words are spoken perfectly matter-of-factly and yet there’s a hint of real worry in her eyes for just a moment. The Maximoff girl? She’s scared of her. Scared that the next time they clash will be as bad as the last.

Upsetting thing, to see a woman like this worried. All that power – and still she wasn’t safe.

“Just tell her you’re scared of cuttlefish. Worked for me.”

A dry chuckle escapes the witch as she shakes her head at him. “But it _shouldn’t have_. Do you have the slightest idea how lucky you got...?”

“Sure. Lucky I didn’t get a spell thrown my way. This still wasn’t a fun day.” Seeing she doesn’t understand what he means he quickly adds, “This memory – you didn’t bother watching it all the way through, did you?”

“Only because someone spooked me so hard I snapped awake. What? Did I miss the good part?”

“The gory part,” he corrects. “If you stay just a minute longer you’re gonna see me get mauled.”

“Well,” smirks the witch, “that _does_ sound tempting...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... by no means finished... just... all I have for now... but there WILL be more...


	3. Just one more episode

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so TV TROPES tells me the genre is actually called "supernatural soap opera"... which is, frankly, their opinion...

“Well?” she says, sitting down on the couch in front of an enormous box of a vintage tv. “What should we watch tonight?”

“Do I get to have a say?” is the mock-amazed reply _that_ gets her. “Since when?”

“I’m feeling generous,” Agatha shrugs. “And we both know that if it’s left up to me it’s just going to be more depressing Easter European stuff.”

“True. You have a real problem, Harkness.”

“I have very many very real problems,” she sighs, relaxing into the couch. Forcing herself to let go of all the tensions the day of listening to Agnes’s terrible sitcom lines left her with.

“Bad day?”

“Don’t. It’s bad enough that this is the easiest scene for me to set these days. Don’t make it worse by sounding like a character from this... _genre_ ,” she says disgustedly.

Only to catch herself because how could they be _more_ this genre. A witch and a ghost, both stuck inside that unfortunate _it was all a dream_ trope, since all of this is taking place in Agnes’s sleeping mind.

It was ticking off _supernatural suburbia_ boxes like crazy.

“How did my life become this?” she groans.

“At least you still have a life...”

“You can’t even say it like you mean it,” she shakes her head at him.

“Being a ghost isn’t that bad,” says the South African with a shrug. “Not lately.”

...

“No I’m serious. Just... a whole lot of this,” she says, shaking her head at the absurdity of it all. “All the power and she uses it for burrowing in some nostalgic sitcom comfort zone with her dead boyfriend.”

“That can’t be true.”

“Fine, she also created two children out of nothing. Which only makes it worse because it just turned into a slightly different type of a sitcom,” Agatha sighs. “I never knew how much I hated those things until now. But I swear – sitcoms are _evil_. All that wholesome family crap... It’s the worst.”

He grins the usual just a little unpleasant grin as he glances at her. “Is that why you killed that dog?”

“I killed that dog because _I felt like it_. Why exactly did you do most of the stuff you did?”

“Fair point.”

It really was. The more she got to know him the clearer it became this was one ruthless, despicable human being.

No wonder they got along so well...

“If you really do hate it so much let’s take some revenge.”

“On the sitcom genre?” she says, a touch incredulous. “How would that even...”

The look on his face tells her all she needs to know. Well, the leer, really. And what else did she expect...? “Not something they’d put on a family show,” he points out. “So what do you say. Want to break the format...?”

“How the hell do you make something like _that_ sound suggestive...?” she wonders, even as she feels his hand trailing up her thigh.

She doesn’t stop it.

Why would she? Life was too short to keep under a certain PG rating...


End file.
